


Gone

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Era, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-09-01 02:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8603839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: When Aramis walks away, he takes more of them with him than d’Artagnan realises – until he looks for it, and finds it gone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set between Series 2 and 3.

When Aramis walks away, he takes more of them with him than d’Artagnan realises – until he looks for it, and finds it gone.

It takes him a while: they are at war, nothing is what it was, and at first he thinks the loss of Athos too – in that way at least – is merely a matter of their campsite surroundings and a captain’s responsibilities; in fact it’s almost a whole month before the three of them become the last ones sat around a campfire’s embers deep into the night, the site as quiet as it ever is, and d’Artagnan can put his hand on Athos’ knee as he used to do and raise his eyebrows, thinking _I’ve waited so long._

And Athos plucks his hand by the bones of the wrist and lifts it away, dropping it gently into the air, as he stands, gathering up his hat, and says, “I must bid you good night.”

D’Artagnan is on his feet as quickly as if he’s been stung. “Athos–!” He realises immediately how well his exclamation carries in the night, and winces, too late; he can see in Athos’ face that the damage has already been done.

But then Athos’ expression relaxes just a fraction, imperceptible to anyone who knew him less well, and he looks between the two of them with a complicated smile. “Good night,” he repeats, and d’Artagnan balls his hands into fists and doesn’t reach for him when he walks away.

Not everything is lost. D’Artagnan and Porthos still have each other, at least, though they’ve never had to be so careful: their canvas walls will hold no secrets, and the gruelling realities of camp life make even silently unlacing each other’s braies under cover of darkness a rare luxury. Most nights, d’Artagnan’s body is far too exhausted for him to do anything more than rest his head against Porthos’ shoulder and curl into him little enough that they could still quickly break apart if disturbed, his mind yearning in waking dreams of all he’s lost.

It makes more sense than he’d realised, that Aramis was the key. It was always his bed they lay together in, big enough for three abreast (and four, if they slotted together like spoons in a drawer), the light streaming in through the open shutters, leathers and linens discarded carelessly on the floor. He aches for the way Athos used to fuck him, fast and relentless, fingers digging into his hips and his face pressed against the pillow, Aramis’ laughter close to his ear; he aches to suck, or to be sucked, or even – his birthday, he almost laughs into Porthos’ collar in remembrance – all three at once.

Most of all, he aches for _Aramis_ , for Porthos and Athos’ sake more than for his own; because he knows instinctively that that nameless thing that Aramis’ departure ripped from all of them was, in the two of them, buried far deeper.

He shifts a little closer to Porthos, suppressing a shiver. He’s not cold – not physically – but he feels _wrong_ without another at his back, without three sets of steady sleepers’ breathing instead of one.

“Why did he go?”

The question burns too hotly to be held back – and Porthos stills abruptly beneath d’Artagnan’s cheek (because he’s still awake, _of course_ he is) for just a moment before he replies, in a voice too thick, “Because he’s a selfish idiot and he thought to save us from himself.”

“He was grieving,” d’Artagnan says, though he isn’t sure himself if he means it to be argument or accord; he’s struck immediately by the fact that they could be describing Athos just as easily.

“And he’s an idiot if he thinks we’re better like this.”

In the dark, d’Artagnan’s hand finds Porthos’, and squeezes.


End file.
